


I Heart CB

by suqua (cwsunrise)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthday, Boyfriends, Domestic, Established, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwsunrise/pseuds/suqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil discovers that Clint has a not-so-secret secret blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blog(s)

Clint wanted a laptop for his birthday. Phil had no idea know why, but being the perfect boyfriend that he is, got him the one he asked for.  
  
It’s a bit of an odd request since in the Avengers tower, almost every flat surface and most of the air is able to become some form of tablet or holographic interface. It's a simple purple notebook, but definitely not Stark-tech. That fact made Tony Stark laugh, at first, then it faded into shock as he realized he wasn’t being asked to replace it with something better. ( _“For fuck’s sake, Barton, is that a Dell? What the hell is wrong with you?”_ )  
  
Watching Stark wince every time he sees the laptop made it worth the purchase many times over in Phil’s personal opinion.  
  
It became fairly obvious that Clint really liked his laptop since during his off time, it was constantly propped up against his thigh as he lounged in the living room. He always appeared to constantly be on the same site, not that Phil was snooping. The same color blue catches his eye over and over. Clint is casual about it, doesn’t seem to care that people peer over his shoulder now and then. Phil doesn’t ask what he’s doing and Clint makes no attempt to explain.  
  
Phil didn't pose a question when Clint asked for the laptop, not even at the party when he’d opened the box. It may have been the look on his face and resulting kiss that distracted him at the time. It’s a month when he finally has to ask.  
  
"Is there a reason why you wanted a laptop?" Phil asks one afternoon. They're both relaxing, Clint's ankle healing from a recent mission and both bundled in sweaters and sharing a blanket.  
  
Clint's lip twitches, already smiling but the question seemed to amuse him. "Yeah," he says easily, fingers on the thin page-down and page-up key, hitting the down many times. "I found out I can customize my blog when I use the real site...I just used my phone before, so."  
  
That takes a moment for Phil to process.  
  
"You...have a blog?"  
  
"Yeah. It's pretty popular, too. I have like, six hundred followers."  
  
There's a lot about Clint Barton that Phil knows. He knows his shoe size, how he likes his pasta, where he grew up...He thought he'd known everything, but here is a fact that not only he, but SHIELD overlooked.  
  
"And you've kept that secret by...?"

  
Clint shrugs. "Never really did. You didn't know?"  
  
"No..."  
  
That makes Clint grin, he hits the page-down button and his hand briefly leaves the keys to click the mouse's left button. "Well, isn't that something," he says cheekily, leaving it at that.

* * *

  
  
Three days later, Phil Coulson is on the blogging website out of nagging curiosity. He doesn't make a blog. It takes him no more than three seconds to find Clint's, guessing his username on the first try, then he skims for a little while.  
  
Phil’s lip twitches when he realizes what he's looking at. A haphazard mix of Clint's interests. The movies and few television shows he liked, archery form (he even debated with others about it sometimes), and an eclectic mix of music. He labels things, tags them, neatly. He takes a  moment to dwell on how Clint can't organize his sock drawer worth a damn but he can take the time to carefully label his blog, then smiles despite himself.  
  
After a little while, he notes a few things kind of out of place. Massive posts dedicated to subjects that were definitely not of Clint's hobbies or interests. They were without graphics or music, something Clint had written himself. And there were some clearly about...Phil.  
  
Three days earlier.  
 _Watching Supernanny again, PC fell asleep on one arm. Blogging one-handed._  
 _#personal #pc #sweet suffering_  
  
That evening, he’d been particularly worn out. Clint had suggested the show, hadn’t paid attention. The steady clicking and typing on Clint’s laptop with the rerun of Supernanny had lulled Phil into a well-deserved nap.  
  
It takes Phil a lot of scrolling to figure out he can track certain tags, clicking the personal tag and examining more posts.  
  
Two weeks ago.  
 _Burnt dinner. Ordered takeout and disposed of the evidence. He’ll never know._  
 _#personal #pc #cooking failure_  
  
Phil remembered coming home to Thai from their favorite restaurant. That had been a surprise in itself, but he vaguely recalled wondering why all the windows had been open and the house still smelling like four different fragrances.  
  
A post from a month before, just hours past midnight on their anniversary.  
 _Best. Night. Ever._  
 _#personal #pc #i fucking love him ok #bse_  
  
Then twelve hours prior to that.  
 _Fucking work called._  
 _#personal #pc #pissed off_  
  
And the day before that.  
 _Ways Tomorrow Could Go_

  * _Great (according to plan)_
  * _Badly (work calls)_



_#personal #pc #no idea what he has planned tho_  
  
“Work” had indeed called, in the form of a mutant rat infestation in the subway. They weren’t done cleaning up until nearly midnight, had gotten home around one A.M. Phil blushed, finger poised on the down-arrow key as he remembers the reaction he’d gotten when he took the slice of cake from the fridge.  
  
The slice of red velvet had come from a little bakery, one that had nearly gotten destroyed just a year earlier. After being thrust through the window, Phil had protected the owners and cowering patrons from a small army of alien invaders (literally small, they were only six-inches tall and packed a mean armory to make up for it).  
  
After the invasion had left that area, he’d let himself accept a slice of cake for their thanks, even though it’d been against SHIELD policy to accept gifts, and presented the cake to Clint. As Clint ate it with his fingers, Phil let someone from medical stitch up a gash on his arm.  
  
“ _It’s about time we made this official_ ,” he’d commented. It still left a big, dumb smile on his face when he remembered the look on Clint’s face.  
  
Phil notices a numbers when he reaches  the bottom of the page. _Page 1 of 18._  
  
It only takes a moment for Phil to have the page number in the URL changed to 18 so he could start reading from whenever Clint started making these posts. He stops before hitting the enter key, suddenly realizing what he's doing. He's suddenly gone on auto pilot, obtaining information with little regard to the contents or the owner.  
  
It was suddenly incredibly embarrassing, Phil suddenly aware that he was reading what was essentially his boyfriend’s private diary. Something that was essentially not his business. He closed the tab and then shut down the computer for good measure.  
  
He felt like such an ass.

* * *

  
  
Afterwards, Phil could have kept it a secret, dishonestly wasn’t his style.  
  
“I read your blog,” Phil confessed over dinner that same day. He’s ready for the consequences, as he considered it an invasion of privacy. What he’s not prepared for is the resulting laugh that nearly makes Clint choke on his dinner. Phil waits until Clint has control over himself before he asks, “And it’s funny because...?”  
  
“Oh my god. You think you’re in trouble, don’t you?” Clint asks with a tilt of his head. He spears another asparagus stalk, smiling. “It’s a public blog for a reason. I never tried to keep it a secret. Still wondering why you didn’t at least know it existed.”  
  
Phil's a little surprised, then wonders why he expected the reprimand. "I don't read every revisement of your file, Barton."  
  
Chewing the stalk of asparagus, Clint almost choked on it (again!) when he laughed. "Jesus, just kill the magic we have going here, why don't you?" he teases, smiling.  
  
Huffing a little, Phil goes back to his dinner. "I stopped checking when we... became intimate."  
  
"' _Became intimate._ '" Clint repeated with a grin, eye glinting as he got to tease again. It was like Christmas for him.  
  
Phil blushed a little. "Eat your vegetables."

* * *

  
  
It takes another day for Phil to brave the blog again, pulling it up on the monitor inside of his in-tower office. There’s more at the beginning, so he checks those first. He encounters a new text post he can just picture Clint typing at that little purple notebook.  
  
Just hours earlier.  
 _Hi babe._  
 _#personal #pc_  
  
Phil sighs and scrolls some more, ignoring the fresh burn on his cheeks. He does as he did before, sorting to the 'personal' tag. As he goes ahead, he skips over some more 'work' complaints, a few references to his 'coworkers'. There was no wonder the blog never raised an alarm within SHIELD, Clint was very careful. Occasionally, though, he encounters ones about their dates.  
  
Then he reads them all carefully, smiling and frowning where applicable. He had to talk to Clint about that date in Memphis, apparently his boyfriend had gotten the wrong idea about just who the waitress was flirting with that night.  
  
Phil blushed and felt a mite bit of pride about a post from just over a year earlier.  
 _Fuck, shoulda known. Definitely a man of many talents._  
 _#personal #pc #bse_  
  
Finally, he reached the day they'd become a couple.  
 _Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck fucking fuck **yes**. **YES**. Fuck, I can't. I just can't. Everything is so fucking amazing right now, how the fuck did I even deserve THIS? I don’t know what to even...am I gonna wake up? I feel like I’m gonna just, fucking wake up. Have it be a dream, you know? Don't deserve this. Him. Fuck. Never going to look at red velvet cake the same way. Never going to look at HIM the same way._  
 _#personal #pc_  
  
Well. Phil leaned back in his chair. He had heard a variation of this post aloud when they’d become a couple, Clint was usually very open and vocal but something about having it laid bare, for all of his ‘followers’ and the world to see...Well, Phil should have been embarrassed. Indeed, there was some color on his face...encountering Clint Barton’s blog should do that to him.  
  
And yet, it wasn’t embarrassing. There was something undoubtedly good, an archive of their relationship...the bare bones, each post a handful of words that brought up so many memories.  
  
Simply remembering that slice of red velvet brought to Phil’s mind the taste of Barton’s lips when they’d kissed as a couple for the first time. He could even remember the sting of the new, raw stitches when Hawkeye had clumsily, desperately pulled him closer.  
  
Phil only manages to stay in his chair for a few seconds longer before he rises to seek out Clint. He finds him easily in the common area, laptop closed on the coffee table as he lounges on the couch. Clint’s almost dozed off, smiles sleepily as Phil sits on the edge of the couch at Clint’s middle. “Hey, babe,” he says with a slight grin, “What’s up?”  
  
There’s a moment, a beat’s pause before Phil’s leaning over and just laying his lips gently across Clint’s smiling mouth. Clint’s lips part like he’s going to say something but instead a warm hand lifts and presses to Phil’s neck, pulls him in a little harder. This is going against Phil’s usual rules of keeping their PDAs in less public areas of the Tower, but hell, right now he doesn’t care.  
  
They kiss, soft and slow. In the past, all their kisses were hot and hurried since they’d never had the time. It had been amazing, a little terrifying, when they finally had the time to carefully learn and love each other with time to spare.  
  
Now, with Clint’s hand sliding up into his hair, Phil lets out a soft groan that makes Clint shudder underneath him. They part because Clint has to mutter, “Jeez, not in here. Can’t do that to me here, not fair.”  
  
Phil huffs a little. “Oh, and just _letting_ me read those blog posts of yours was fair?” He kisses the side of Clint’s mouth, smiles a little when Clint’s head tilts a little to try to turn that into a proper kiss. “I’ve got a craving for red velvet now.”  
  
Clint smiles, blushes a little across his cheeks. Phil knows that blush, knows without looking that it’s cresting the top of his ears too. “You hate cake.”  
  
“You don’t.” Phil points out gently.  
  
Just kind of looking at him, Clint’s caught in this big, blushing smile and Phil’s heart can’t really take it. He kisses him again, once, before his mind catches on a question he’s been sort of mulling over in the back of his mind. “So,” he says, Clint relaxes a little and looks expectant. “I know what the pc hashtag means, but what does ‘bse’ stand for?”  
  
A lot of their date nights had that one attached.  
  
Apparently that question caught Clint unexpected because his eyes went wide and he immediately started convulsing with laughter. Phil watched him do that, amused for only a few seconds before he started to suspect there was something about the answer that was making him laugh. “What? What does it mean?”  
  
Clint had to catch his breath before he could tilt his head, whisper the answer in Phil’s ear. The answer made Phil so scarlet that Clint was roaring with laughter again.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Phil did make his own blog. He didn’t have plans to use it much at all, but Clint caught him at it. His boyfriend promptly usurped the laptop he had been using but Phil made no move to grab it back.  
  
“You’re ‘thesuitedman’?” Clint asked with a grin, looking thoughtful then nodding with a definite _not-bad_ expression on his face. “Fits. I like it.”  
  
“I thought so too.” Phil's superpower was more or less the ability to blend in, there were police reports without Phil's name and only referring to him as such across the country.  
  
He watched as Clint customized his blog out of the default style. He didn’t even move to stop him when Clint made the first, and probably the only, post to his blog.  
  
“What does less-than-three mean?” was all Phil asked.  
  
But he didn’t get a verbal response, just Clint Barton bursting into laughter and crawling into his lap to kiss the hell out of him. He just decided to assume that it was a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic went a different direction than first planned but it also made some little side-stories along the way.


	2. The Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark disapproves of Clint's biggest birthday wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cute, right? Or funny? I...I hope so. Side story number 1: Clint's crappy laptop's origin story.

When Clint tells Phil that he wants a laptop for his birthday, he also has a print-out of the exact laptop he wants. It’s a small one, not the flashiest or even the newest on the market.  
  
“This one?” Phil repeated, taking the sheet and examining the specs. While he wasn’t an expert, he was still aware that this was far from the best. It was well below the price range that Phil could afford, too. “Are you sure?”  
  
Clint’s cheeky grin answers him. “ _That_ one.”  
  
Of course, Clint gets his wish, the sleek little thing wrapped up and ready for his party. Not all of the Avengers are to be in attendance to the party though, Bruce cooped up in a lab somewhere in South Asia. It was okay, though, he sent Clint a terribly outdated e-card. Clint had really liked it.  
  
“Oof. It _is_ my birthday,” Clint says that morning, coming out from his shower to find Phil pulling on a black t-shirt. Making no attempt to hide the broad lick he does of his lower lip, Clint eyed the way the shirt made it much more obvious just how great Phil looked out of a suit, too. “Hel _lo_.”  
  
Phil’s ears redden only a tiny bit as Clint puts his hands on his hips from behind. When Phil answers, it’s very casual. “Hi. Your birthday party is in thirty minutes,” he reminded him quickly, lest Clint get any ideas.  
  
Too late, though. Clint’s hands trail up underneath the hem of the shirt to pet Phil’s hips. “Yeah, about that. I was wrong to pick a birthday breakfast. Dunno what I was thinking.” he said, leaning forward to press his lips to and nip at the back of Phil’s neck.  
  
“You were thinking about how you love breakfast food.”  
  
Clint nuzzles the hairline at Phil’s nape. “I love _you_ ,” he says with a really stupid, sappy grin.  
  
That earns him a quiet little laugh. “More than bacon?”  
  
Of course, Phil had to play dirty. Clint grinned and deliberately allowed a moment’s pause. “Well,” he says eventually, “I suppose. A little bit more.”  
  
This time Phil’s laughing openly, smiling when he turns around in Clint’s arms. “Happy birthday,” he says, leaning over and kissing him gently. He doesn’t let Clint slip him any tongue, just pulls away to kiss his forehead. “Get dressed.”  
  
Clint’s stupid, sexy boyfriend leaves him to put on his stupid clothes.  
  
As he buttons his shirt, Clint groans loudly because, fuck, Phil in a t-shirt was so distracting that he missed his chance to drop the towel and make a _birthday suit_ joke!

Maybe later.

 

* * *

 

It should be funny to walk into a Denny’s and not have babies crying two tables over or police officers cloistered in a corner. It’s just shy of 8am, so there should have been a mass amount of breakfast-goers in the restaurant. They make up for that with most of the Avengers all dining loudly on pancakes, bacon, and eggs. They were probably eating plenty to make up for it, judging by the way Steve and Thor were putting away skillet platters.  
  
Clint suspected, and rightly so, that a certain eccentric billionaire had called ahead at some point to reserve the entire restaurant.  
  
“I fucking _love_ pancakes,” Clint says with one side of his mouth mouth full. “You gonna eat those, Stark?” Clint points his syrupy fork at the stack of untouched pancakes in front of Tony.  
  
“Yes, yes I am,” Tony says, finally looking up from his weird little see-through cell phone. He puts it in the front pocket of his suit where a pocket square was supposed to go. “These are mine, birthday boy or not. I suggest you utilize your never-ending birthday pancake privilege.” Tony punctuates the sentence by cutting and shoving a tri-stack triangle of pancakes in his mouth.  
  
Oh, Clint would be using the hell out of that never-ending pancake deal. He lifts a hand to wave over the person who has inevitably become their private waitress and therefore, dear friend. That fact is solidified by the fact she can apparently read minds, already coming over with a plate of fresh pancakes.  
  
“Here you go,” she says, then tries to hand Tony the plate of bacon he’d asked for. He glances between it and is about to open his mouth when Steve quickly leans forward and accepts it for him with a polite thank you.  
  
"So," Clint finishes his next plate of pancakes, or as Phil called it, inhaled them. " _Please_ tell me you got my favorite cake."  
  
Phil smiles, shakes his head. "You are so spoiled." He's clearly affectionate, though, squeezing Clint's knee under the table where his hand had been since they sat down. "But yes, I did. How can you still be hungry, though?"  
  
"You ate as many pancakes as I did," Steve commented, looking at the stacks of syrup-soaked plates on the table. "Maybe more."  
  
"It's my birthday." Clint pointed out. "I have birthday stomach. Anyway, can I open presents yet?"  
  
Phil chuckles. “After cake.”  
  
To which, Clint just grins even harder because he knows what’s coming.  
  
The lights dim slightly, perfect candle ambiance. Their waitress rounds a corner with a circular cake, frosting tinted lavender. Clint nearly chokes when he sees that there’s a Hawkeye figure on the cake.  
  
Mini-Hawkeye is poised with one knee bent, aiming an arrow. Even tiny molded sunglasses similar enough to the ones he used were on 'his' face.  
  
“ _Oh my god_ ,” Clint wheezes at the sight of it, just as the group starts in on the singing. Surrounding mini-Hawkeye are a number of black and purple candles. Not surprisingly, Thor’s voice leads them all in a rousing chorus of the birthday song. The cake is placed in front of Clint.  
  
Somehow near the end of the song, Tony’s taken that clear-phone of his and snapped a picture. He even tries to start the, “ _And many more_ ,” until Steve nudges him quiet and Clint blows the candles out.  
  
Clint’s gone a little red, unbidden. “Thanks guys,” he said, smiling as the waitress set down a stack of smaller plates and a handful of forks next to it.  
  
Not surprisingly at all, the cake is red velvet inside. The first bite, full of that familiar taste puts a knowing grin on his face, something that makes Phil blush.  
  
When they’ve all sampled what everyone agrees is the best red velvet cake in the city, the presents are handed over.  
  
The small pile of gifts meets Clint’s expectations of the gift-giver: an outrageously expensive technological item from Stark, something incredibly useful and likely long-lasting from Steve, something deadly from Natasha, then something bizarre and unworldly from Thor.  
  
And last, he gets exactly what he’d wanted from Phil.  
  
“What,” Tony gasps, nearly dropping his phone into a puddle of cold pancake syrup as he saw _the thing_. “Is that?”  
  
Clint’s unwrapped the laptop, smoothed a hand over the laptop’s box with a grin. He doesn’t answer Tony, leaning over to press a kiss to Phil’s cheek.  
  
Tony stands up, trying to get a good look at the offending item. “For fuck’s sake, Barton, is that a Dell?” He’s entirely serious, which is why most of the table starts snickering. They've seen this show before. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”  
  
To his right, Steve hisses, “ _Tony_.”  
  
Smiling, Clint is still ignoring Tony as he looks over at Phil. “It’s _exactly_ what I wanted, babe. Thank you.”  
  
But it’s obvious that Tony isn’t done. He points right at Clint. “Is this the sad sequel to that iPhone bullshit? I know what you’re doing. But I won’t cave in. I am not upgrading your shit, Barton. I don’t even care if you _beg_.” He sits back down, scraping a bit of frosting from the bottom of his plate with his fork, then scraped it off with his teeth while managing to look smug.  
  
Shrugging at the warning, Clint opens the box and pulls out the foam bits so he can take the laptop out. He and Phil are talking about the specs of the laptop. Tony’s smug smile starts fading fairly quickly.  
  
“That...you,” Tony begins, but still no one’s paying any attention. “It’s...”  
  
The laptop was on the table now, the dirty plates taken away. Tony’s face went through every possible disgusted expression he could twist it into, but finally snapped when the laptop actually trilled the Windows startup music. “Come on, seriously? Are you fucking with me, Barton? Yeah, I _know_ you still use an iPhone. I also know you still use a DVD player for some godforsaken reason...And despite the fact that I have given _everyone_ on this team a StarkPhone--I, even _Steve_ uses his!” He gestures an arm at Steve who goes a little red. “I’ve made computers, laptops, tablets, cell phones from _scratch_ when I was _bored_ and they’re all a hundred times more advanced than that...that thing. I know you like messing with me, but this is practically _in-hu-mane_. You are actually _depriving_ yourself of my tech.”  
  
Everyone at the table had turned their full attention to Tony during his rant. After a second, Steve reaches and gently tugs down on Tony’s arm. For a second, Tony didn’t move but let out a breath before dropping back into his seat with a huff. Through a very fake smile that showed all his teeth, he growls, “Happy birthday, Hawkeye.”  
  
Clint grins. “Thanks, Stark.”  
  
There was a distinct possibility that someday, Clint’s psychological fuckery would get him in trouble with Tony Stark.  
  
Just not today.  
  
(It is his birthday, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other planned side-stories: that slice of red velvet cake (Clint POV), #bse, and their anniversary.


	3. Red Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd danced around it for years, but it only really started with that slice of cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to finish this for so long, but it was fighting me. It wound up being longer than I expected. 
> 
> Hope u like.

The tiny alien guys who’d tried to take over the city had also tried to knock Clint off his various perches at least sixteen times. They’d failed, but at least half of those times had been by the skin of his teeth.The various contraptions recently built into his vest and bow had saved him more than once, he made a mental note to thank Tony Stark when he got a moment. Or not, he wasn’t sure he needed the ego boost.

A team of paramedics had come from nearly every hospital in the area to deal with the citizens injured in the fight. Which, by the way, had been a minimal number. There’d been no completely toppled buildings or major explosions, thankfully. The worst taken care of, the combination of SHIELD medical teams and local medics tended to the less-injured. One put a couple of butterfly bandages on the gash running across Clint’s forehead. He didn’t flinch, watched the stragglers on the scene as he slowly let himself acknowledge the weariness and aches of his body.

“Barton!”

 Clint went alert at the call of his name, not in his earpiece but out there in the air, startling the paramedic and tweaked the bandage. He looked up, across a span of rubble, and found a familiar black-suited figure striding his way. While he’d heard on the radio that Coulson was fine, seeing him settled the last buzz of adrenaline that he’d been trying to calm.

 It harkened back to the very first time that Clint had heard that steady voice in his ear, calmly taking control over a hellish situation. From what he understood, Fury only sent Coulson into the messiest, most unlikely to succeed jobs and somehow they wound up neat and tidy, wrapped up with a bow. It was Coulson’s job to clean up the messes.

 As he approached, Coulson definitely appeared fine but Clint’s brows furrowed as he noted a little too much red dripping down his arm. He pulled his head away from the medic, pushing himself to his feet and ate up the distance between them quickly enough.

 Yeah, up close he could really see the blood soaking through the pale blue cuff of Coulson’s dress shirt.

 And in his apparently uninjured hand, a small pink box?

 “Did you stop at a bakery? Instead of getting that _treated_?!"

 A weird, probably blood loss-related smile lit up Coulson's face. “Heh. Shoe’s on the other foot,” and he must've found that hilarious because he actually wheezed a laugh.

 Honestly, it took all Clint had not to smile back. Damn infectious smiling  bastard. “ _Shut up_. What the hell, Coulson?”

 At some point, a doctor and nurse had raced toward them and made quick, efficient work of cutting most of Coulson's sleeves off. Clint watched and winced as the fabric slipped away. The gash on Coulson's arm wasn't deep but it was long, almost ran up his entire forearm. A second swipe, probably from the same weapon, had managed deeper and did need them. The doctor and nurse team sat him down on the back of a half-mangled truck so they could stitch him up.

 It wasn’t the first time Clint had to watch Coulson get stitched up, but that didn’t make it any more surreal. The actual first time, he’d been the one stitching. A jagged one on Coulson’s left shoulder, probably a faded scar by that point. His stitching hadn’t been perfect, deemed adequate. It didn’t seem to matter how many times Clint had seen the vulnerable, human side of Agent Phil Coulson... it always threw him off.

 "Too bad about your suit," Clint said, squinting at the red streaks drying on Phil’s skin. Really, Clint could go home if he wanted.

 Coulson watched his arm get sewn up without a hint of queasiness. He was studying the freshly scissor-cut fabric too. "My dry-cleaner was getting sick of the blood stains, anyway."

 Clint narrowed his eyes. "You don't get wounded _that_ often, sir."

 Shrugging with his free shoulder, Coulson's face moved into a tinier smile that looked like he was holding back some laughter. He held up the pink box, toward Clint.

 "Do you want this?"

 Arm twitching up of it’s own accord, Clint looked at the box then at Coulson. “What?”

 “The cake. Do you want it?” Coulson tilted the box slightly. “I think it’s red velvet.”

 It wasn’t exactly a secret that Clint likes to eat, that he has an enormous sweet tooth. Coulson was probably even well aware that Clint especially loved cake and if it had frosting made from scratch...Oh boy. Clint also knew that Coulson did not like cake, the heathen. He purses his lips, trying not to think about what it probably tastes like. “You should eat it, though. You lost some blood,” Clint said doubtfully.

 “Not gonna.”

 All in all, Clint is a simple guy. He’s been on rooftops fighting tiny harder-to-shoot-than-usual  aliens for hours without a fuel-up and hell, his stomach’s growling and mouth watering thinking about the fact that there was something edible - with homemade-looking frosting no less - being offered to him. He takes the box and flips it open.

 “Ooh,” is the tiny noise he makes around a grin, turning it to Coulson for a second. “Thanks!”

 No fork, he decides _fuck it_ and tugs a corner of the slice off and pulls it into his mouth. He lets out a pleased noise in his throat at the resulting explosion of sweet flavor on his tastebuds. Around a mouthful he says, “...This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

 Coulson just watches him eat with a smile on his face, unaffected by the stitches. The doctor finishes quickly enough and she disappears to aid elsewhere, the nurse bandaged him up swiftly and efficiently. Before the nurse can begin explaining how to take care of his stitches, Coulson tells him gently that he knows exactly how to care for it.

 Clint watches Coulson talk to the nurse, chewing slowly while his head’s a little elsewhere. He’s gone back in time a little, thinking of when he last saw Coulson as vulnerable as this.

 

* * *

 

That one night Clint had left SHIELD abruptly post-mission as soon as he’d gotten notice of an all-clear. Once he had gotten the hell out, he sat himself in the dankest bar he could find in New York City. He bought beer until he wasn’t allowed to buy beer anymore, crappy beer that tasted like ass unless you kept drinking it.

 If he were honest, Clint would admit his job got to him sometimes. Sometimes.

 It’d always been hard, nothing had ever come easy for Clint. Not a single thing, like someone had decided early on that all Clint deserved wanted were mountains of challenges to overcome. Hell, he thought, easy street would be a nice change of pace now and then.

 But those were drunk Clint thoughts, he’d wake up the next day with a killer hangover and a reality check. That is, if he could make it home in one piece by slurring his address at a cab, then falling asleep through the thirty dollar fare back to his apartment building. Hopefully he wouldn’t vomit and get charged an extra fee for soiling the cab. He didn’t have enough cash on him for that.

 Instead, when Clint was hanging on the edge of lucid, he felt someone tug on his arm. He he was getting pulled out of the corner booth where he’d been half-asleep for some time. At first, he thought it was the bartender throwing him out. But the touch was too soft, too careful for that.

_You’re a mess, Barton._

 Even in his inebriated state, Clint could recognize that voice.

 He’d never gotten the full story on why, but Coulson’d appeared out of no where and hauled his ass out of the bar like he weighed nothing at all.

 When Clint had actually asked, while slumped against the door of Coulson’s clean car, how Coulson had found him, he’d gotten a tiny smile that he could still remember and then a little chuckle. _It’s not like I’m a secret agent, or anything. I pinged your cell phone when I left HQ._

 Shaking his head, Clint tried asking why instead.

 Coulson started the car, glanced behind him as he backed out of his parking spot. _I know you._ Clint just stared at him, world fuzzy around Coulson’s profile.

_Barton?_

 Clint had just started from a tiny little huff of air, rapidly approached a chuckle and finally broke down into almost hysterical laughter. By the time he got air back, his stomach and throat felt tight and ached from laughing.

 Gotta go home, he’d told Coulson. Dog needed him.

_Still with your sitter, Barton. He’ll be fine._

 When they pulled up in front of decidedly not Clint’s apartment, he’d stared up at it with a furrow to his brow. He was somewhat sobered up, actually, stuff was starting to make sense. This was Coulson’s place, he said.

 When Coulson’s answer was to pull him from the vehicle into an indoor parking lot, Clint startled because how the hell did he get around the car so fast? And hadn’t they just been on the street?

 Okay, not as sober as he’d thought. His steps wobbled from the garage up to the door, Coulson guiding his steps with a steady hand until they reached the front couch.

 He’s dropped onto the couch and Clint feels something pulled out from underneath him. Phil, he says quietly. Sorry. I’m really sorry.

_Nothing to be sorry for. Go to sleep, Clint._

 Don’t wanna sleep, is all Clint can say before he falls asleep.

 He wakes up the next morning with the hangover from hell, moaning into the pillow that had left weird fold impressions in his skin. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, eyes pressed into the pillow tightly closed. He hated this part, though he vaguely notices there’s no acrid taste in his throat. Thank god. Probably not going to be sick, then.

 Something cold touches the back of his neck and he flinched, but then he realizes how warm he is and turns toward it. He squints in the light, feeling something pounding in the corner of his eyes at the blue ice pack in a familiar hand. “Shit,” he mutters, flopping his arm over and taking it. That’s right, Coulson came and got him. He puts the ice pack almost on the throbbing part of his head and holds it there a moment. He vaguely heard a clunk on the wood coffee table.

 He pauses a second before he lets out a muffled, “If that’s orange juice...”

 “It is. Real stuff, but there’s pulp.”   

 “It’ll do,” Clint says wryly, wrenching himself from comfort with a wince.  He growls swear words under his breath as the room tries to spin. He closes his eyes and waits for it to stop.

 When he opens his eyes, Coulson’s sitting in the armchair at the end of the coffee table reading something. A book. Clint doesn’t know what it is because he is staring at the tiny white pills next to his glass of pulp-free orange juice. He takes the juice but doesn’t take the pills, Coulson doesn’t say anything. He drains half of it in one long drink, feels it soothe something inside of him already. 

Clint tries not to look or feel self-conscious but fails. “Thanks,” he mutters, still holding the ice pack. His hand’s starting to freeze but the cold dulls the throbbing pain in the back of his head.

 “You’re welcome,” Coulson says simply, turning the page of his book. It’s a little frustrating.

 Running his fingers through the condensation gathering on the outside of the glass, Clint doesn’t look at him for a minute or two. “How are you,” he said quietly, swallowing. “Uh. Feeling?”

 Coulson folded the book closed and actually looked at Clint. “I’m fine, Barton,” he said gently. “Really.”

 “Got it out of your system pretty quick,” Clint said quietly. His skin itched.

 “It was a minor reaction.”

 Clint’s voice went icy. “You stopped _breathing_. That’s not fucking _minor_.”

 “Missions go off course now and then. But we got the job done,” Coulson said gently, “Don’t blame yourself for a mistake you had no control over.”

 Refusing to meet Coulson’s eyes, Clint fiddled with the cup a little more. “I should’ve noticed.”

 “I doubt even you could see the drugs hidden in the food. They were circulated platters hors d'oeuvres and tests showed the entire tray was laced. They’re assuming he was willing to risk a dozen of his party guests to get to the one undercover.”

Even from afar, Clint had seen Phil’s eyes roll into his head and his knees give out. The glass in his hand had shattered when he fell and the assailant had nearly gotten away. Unfortunately for him, Phil being down made him a clear target and Clint’d gotten the pleasure of taking him down.

“I still don’t get how he managed to get the drop on you, sir,” Clint muttered.

Coulson sighed. “I’m not perfect, Barton.”

“Yeah, you are. That’s why it’s fucking scary,” Clint said bitterly, drinking a third of the orange juice in one go. Then he felt a huff of a laugh break free despite himself. “Busted. I’m tellin’ everyone, Agent Perfect ain’t so perfect.”

It’s in that moment, where Coulson smiles quietly, that Clint realizes that Coulson’s not wearing a suit. Why would he be, when he’s at home, though? He’s been here exactly once before, but it was just a pick-up. Today, Coulson’s wearing a freakin’ sweater of all things. And it looks insanely comfortable from where Clint’s sitting. And his pants aren’t even pressed, they’re also soft-looking and worn like he actually lounges around the house in them. And he’s not even wearing shoes!

Meanwhile, Clint’s in the same SHIELD basic black tee shirt, pants, and nondescript black coat as last night. He looks like a freakin’ wrinkly ninja

After a couple of seconds, Coulson twitches and clears his throat. Clint realizes he’s been staring and drops his gaze to the table, drinking down another third of the orange juice. It was kicking in a little, maybe a little.

“Not perfect, Barton,” Coulson said evenly, smiling.

Clint’s staring again, but just for a moment before he finishes the orange juice and puts it on the table. “Well,” he said, standing and adjusting his coat. “Could’a fooled me, sir.”

Coulson stands as well. “Going?”

“Yeah. Gotta...” he gestures lamely, sighing. “Dog.”

Coulson actually smiles pretty broadly at that. “That’s right. He probably misses you.”

“Misses eating my stuff,” Clint said with his own smile, heading for the front door. He opens the door itself, stepping out and turning a little as Coulson stands just inside. “Thanks for uh, letting me crash here, n'the orange juice. And picking me up from the bar... And putting up with drunk me.”

“Anytime, Barton.”

There’s a part of Clint that instantly has to remind himself that this is _not_ a walk of shame. Well, sort of. But not _that_ kind of walk of shame. Damnit, why isn’t it _that_ kind of walk of shame?

Clint doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s Phil's sweater, maybe he’s still got some alcohol in his system, but his head does something. Maybe there’s a neural spasm because his brain thinks it’s a goddamn good idea to take a little half-step back into Coulson’s apartment.

Then they’re close, really too close. Close enough that Clint gets this idea that maybe he can smell cologne or bodywash or something that’s just spicy and _interesting_. He swallows abruptly, something in him wanting to push forward enough to kiss Coulson on that damn mouth of his but-

Coulson’s body leans back a little, just enough. “I’ll see you on Monday. Get some sleep.”

And Clint’s nodding, stepping back and avoiding the hell out of eye contact. “Yes,” he says dumbly, “Monday. Bye.”

He turns and takes carefully measured steps toward the elevator, wondering what in the hell just happened and trying his damnedest not to run.

 

* * *

 

Thus started two years of what Clint liked to think of as their _Almosts_.

Almost touching was the most frequent one. Then there were the Almost kisses, less often. Those were the worst and left Clint confused as fuck. He didn’t know about Coulson, but Clint liked to think it made him feel something good or bad. But he couldn’t let himself linger on it, it was too stressful. Luckily, he was good at pushing stuff down, deep where he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

They never addressed it. And it wasn’t always Clint who caused them. The Almosts happened over and over, nearly every time they saw each other. When Clint hit senior agent status and Fury needed Coulson on more and more of his weird little pet projects, those times decreased significantly.

He dated. Coulson dated, apparently. At least, so spoke the rumor mill. And Clint dating wasn’t so much dating as it was ruining almost-friendships with coworkers or civilians, the occasional hook-up. Wasn’t all that much to think about.

The Almosts were just a weird thing between them. That’s all Clint ever expected of it.

“Barton,” Coulson says with a smile and that catches Clint’s attention easily enough, zeroes his focus back in.

After a beat, Clint’s wondering so he tries, “Sir?”

Coulson looks like he’s going to say something, but he decides on something else. “Clint.” And Clint’s brain quickly reassigns Coulson as _Phil_ because this conversation has taken an incredibly unexpected turn. “It’s about time we made this official.”

There’s red on Clint’s face and it’s not just tiny pieces of cake, he’s blushing for the first time...ever? . Frosting on his upper lip. So he probably looks stupid, that’s what Clint concentrates on first when his brain reboots. His mouth shuts, having been left gaping.

When he speaks, his voice is a little broken. “Phil...” His head quickly throws a bunch of words at him, so his mouth opens and a bunch of bullshit comes out. “S’the blood loss? Are you sure you shouldn’t eat this, you probably need the-”

“Clint.”

And with that warm, annoyed-affectionate tone cut through his babble like a fucking bolt of lightning, Clint swallows and tilts his head a little. “I. Uh,” he manages intelligently, face going especially warm realizing that Phil is smiling at him.

For all that Clint really, really wants to smile back, he’s also going into panic mode. Nothing in his life ever goes right, so why now? But Phil doesn’t seem to lose confidence, his smile doesn’t fall at all as the silence continues.

He’s still struggling to find words when Phil slips the hand on his good side into Clint’s and gently squeezes. Clint doesn’t know what to do about that.

“...You fuckin’ with me?” Clint asked hoarsely, hand tensing around Phil’s sporadically. He’s definitely not shaking.

Phil shook his head. “Completely serious. What do you think?”

“I think,” Clint began, cos that part was easy, then he finally let his head throw out the words, “Uh. Yeah. Yes. Okay.”

Then Phil’s hand was squeezing his tighter, drawing him in a little. “I think I’m ready for an actual kiss this time,” Phil said quietly, that same little smile he’d been wearing the  _whole damn time_ on his face. “If that’s okay with you.”

Clint’s answer was to pull him in, brushing their lips together before pushing into it, gripping his hand tight and his other grabbing at Phil’s shoulder an instant before he remembered the stitches and moved them, fisting in Phil’s dress shirt. Phil responds in kind, gentle pressure giving way to a questing tongue and damn he tastes amazing. And the red velvet, Clint was going to have a hard time not connecting the two anymore. He’s definitely never going to forget this.

Hell, he’d blog about it tonight so that he definitely never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may write Coulson's thoughts leading up to bringing the slice of cake to Clint next... or #bse.


End file.
